


Summer Storm

by heyitsamorette (AmoretteHD)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Doomed Relationship, Falling In Love, Love Poems, M/M, Romance, The Deathly Hallows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-18 15:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4710563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/pseuds/heyitsamorette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of a budding romance, and a steep decline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> The “steep decline” part is not pictured in this story, but anyone familiar with canonical events will know their fate. I was going to continue this story with more chapters but I found myself not having worked on it in months, and since I have other projects at the moment, I decided to just end this story here. I might add a part two about their breakup in the future; for now, I was just tired of seeing this story “open” and unfinished. I am happy with how it stands currently.
> 
> Contact me on tumblr: [@heyitsamorette](https://heyitsamorette.tumblr.com/)

The sun shone into Albus’s eyes as he tried to write, making him squint against the parchment. He had been writing his reply to the editor of _Transfiguration Today_ , Doris Puddyshank, for three days now and nothing was sounding right. 

He pulled the lacy white curtain across the window, settled back down in his chair, and picked up his quill. It hardly made a difference, the sun was always going to shine this early in the morning. 

He sighed as he jabbed the quill back in the ink pot and slumped against the back of the chair; her letter would go unanswered for another day. It was not the sun keeping him from writing, nor his inability to formulate a reply. His heart simply wasn’t in it. 

The clinking of china distracted him, and he realized Aberforth was bringing up tea. He turned toward the open door and saw Aberforth’s spry figure going into Ariana’s bedroom. 

“Would you mind making me a cup as well?” Albus asked. 

Aberforth frowned. “You’re smart enough, make your own tea,” he grunted, then pushed the tray with two cups into Ariana’s room. The door banging shut had a sense of finality to it. 

Albus hadn’t expected much different, so he wasn’t fussed. He turned back to the desk and sat staring blankly at the expanse of lacy curtain, his fingers steepled together. This was his favorite room of the house, his mother’s study. Aberforth would say that’s because here is where the books were, lined in their bookcases; and that was a very good point, Albus did enjoy books very much. Or he’d say it’s because here, in this spot at this desk, is where Albus wrote all his correspondences, like a “spotlight-loving suck up” if he remembered his brother’s exact words. But it was neither of those reasons, and Aberforth wouldn’t believe him anyway; but this was Albus’s favorite room of the house because somehow, even more so than her bedroom, this room still smelled like her. 

Solid figures, obscured by the lace, were moving outside. Albus watched them. 

A tall, lean person wearing black was carrying what Albus determined to be a trunk in front of his neighbor’s house. He recognized his neighbor, Bathilda Bagshot, but the excitable way she moved coupled with her short stature. She was like a bee who was always flying around with something to do, small and energetic, and her hair was always pulled into a big fat bun atop her head. 

Leaning forward now, Albus pulled back the curtain that he had so recently drawn. He wanted to get a look at what was going on over there. Not that he was nosy… He just liked to stay informed. 

He did not expect what he saw, or for what he felt once he saw it. It’s not like he’d never seen attractive boys before; oh, Albus had both seen and imagined plenty. It was his best kept secret all through school, but he still snuck glances, and looked his fill when he got a chance. 

It’s not like Albus had never seen blond hair on a bloke, but he couldn’t remember ever before seeing it fall so elegantly across a brow, nor it gleam in the morning sun as if the rays rushed to touch it. It’s not like he’d never seen a sharp jaw, but one leading to such a pouty pair of lips? Albus didn’t think he’d ever seen that. 

It was unthinkable not to go see them up close as well, because from the top floor of the next house, through a dusty window, was much too far off. He doubted he got a good look at them; perhaps they were less pouty from far away. This was something he suddenly had to find out, like one of his magical experiment, a thing he absolutely must investigate. Albus leapt down the stairs two at a time, didn’t bother to throw on a pair of robes as it looked far too warm outside, and trotted past his front garden. 

Bathilda Bagshot looked up at him as soon as she heard him approach. 

“Good morning, Ms Bagshot,” he said, lifting his hand in a friendly little wave. 

Her pinched expression did not change. 

He was almost afraid to look at the boy, who had paused in his efforts to drag his trunk up her drive. 

“What are you doing?” she asked him without as much preamble as a hello.

“Er… nothing. Nothing much planned for today.”

She nodded, as though this was just the answer she was hoping for. “Then you’ll help Gellert bring up his things,” she said, waving him forward as she waltzed back toward her house. “I have crumpets in the oven and I’ve left them far too long.” As she disappeared through the threshold of her front door, Albus heard the ringing of a kitchen alarm from somewhere inside the house. 

He did look at the boy now, and his heart skipped. 

“Gellert?” he asked, walking a couple paces forward. “I’m Albus.” He held out his hand.

Gellert really was stunning up close. Much more stunning than he had appeared from behind the curtain. 

“Hello,” Gellert said. He did not let go of his trunk to take Albus’s hand, as he was still holding on with both of his own.

“Why don’t you Levitate that?” Albus asked. “Are you still underage?”

Gellert’s nostrils flared as he looked away. “My birthday is tomorrow.” He had the faintest accent, like someone who had lots of practice speaking English but it hadn’t been his first language. 

Albus noticed another trunk on the sidewalk, and he began to wonder what was going on. Was this new boy, Gellert, moving in with Ms Bagshot for a long time? What did he need two trunk for? How did he know Ms Bagshot and where did he come from? 

Naturally, so many questions surrounding one single person made Gellert an irresistible subject, and Albus did not hesitate to grab the second trunk. Dragging the heavy trunk across the path was difficult, but he mimicked Gellert and did it manually, not wanting to show him up by using magic when Gellert obviously could not. It felt important to make a good impression on him. 

The mouth-watering scent of freshly baked crumpets became apparent the moment they entered the house. After they abandoned the trunks in the entry, Albus led the way into the tiny kitchen. He was familiar with this house as he had come here many times on his visits home; his mother and Bathilda had been friends. 

“Those smell absolutely delicious, Ms Bagshot,” Albus said, grinning broadly. 

“There isn’t any chance you’d like to stay for tea, is there, dear?” she asked with her eyebrows raised knowingly. 

“Oh, I would love to!” 

He pulled out the nearest chair at the small round table and perched happily upon it. 

“Are you hungry, Gellert?” Bathilda asked, making two white plates fly from the cupboard down to the table. “You must be, after your trip.”

“Where are you traveling from?” Albus took the opportunity to ask. Gellert was pulling out the chair next to him. Albus’s chest was doing strange things. 

“Sweden,” Gellert answered. “But I am here for good now.”

“Oh, well that’s quite a change.”

“Gellert is my great nephew,” Bathilda clarified. “He staying here for the summer… and then going back home.” She eyed him the counter where she was arranging crumpets on a plate. “No matter what he says.”

Albus caught Gellert roll his eyes when she had turned away again. 

“You don’t like it there?” he asked with a smile.

“There is nothing left for me there” Gellert said cryptically. “My time as home is over.”

Albus nodded. “I know what you mean. I wish _my_ time at home were over; alas, it’s only just begun.”

“Don’t be so bitter, Albus,” Bathilda said, bringing their tea. He grabbed his cup instantly and began to stir in some cream. “What would your mother say if she heard you?”

Albus ignored the way her words stung some place deep down, because for the first time, Gellert was looking at him with interest. Albus noticed his lips. Up close, they were more frowny than pouty.

“I have to stay here and take care of my sister,” Albus explained to him. “She’s… ill.”

“For the entire summer?”

Albus laughed as he continued to stir his tea. “Forever.” 

He picked up a crumpet and split it in half, watching the steam waft out. 

“You are a good brother,” Gellert said. And though his voice was soft and sincere, his lips remained downturned. Maybe that was their natural state. Albus found he didn’t mind, he usually laughed enough anyway to make up for three people anyways. Besides, he didn’t think he’d ever enjoyed looking at a frown so much before.

He wanted to know everything about Gellert all at once, but he was afraid that the questions wouldn’t stop if he let himself ask. Bathilda was talking about the shortage of owl pellets at the shops, and Albus nodded along with as friendly and interested a smile as he could muster. But it was all he could do not to outright stare at Gellert by his side. Albus watched him from the corner of his eye, looked down at his hand tensed up next to his plate. Gellert hadn’t touched any food. 

When Bathilda started clearing away the teapot, Albus asked, “Is there anything you need help with?” he meant to ask Bathilda but somehow he found himself facing Gellert when he’d said it. 

Gellert looked at him for a long moment. It was wholly unnerving. When he opened his mouth, it was to be cut off by his aunt. 

“Nothing, dear, Gellert just has to put his things away and I suspect he will want a rest after such a long journey.”

Gellert nodded, although Albus suspected that was not what he had been preparing to say.

He left them to their unpacking, and he rushed back to his house. As he barreled up the steps, Aberforth called out from somewhere -- _“Stop making all that racket, it irritates her!”_ \-- but Albus ignored him and ran straight into the study. This time he shut the door. 

Embarrassment flooded him as he acknowledged that he wanted privacy, because what he was going to do, although it had to be done, was rather a private thing. But he could not help himself. He scanned the bookshelves, looking for a thick grey one with gold lettering. 

_Great Love Poems in History_

Settling in the armchair where his mother used to read, Albus flipped through the volume with his pulse in his fingers. He read at random. Poems from famous wizards to their sweethearts all throughout wizarding time. The more he read, the bigger his heart seemed to feel in his chest. He did not stop until he heard footsteps and noises from outside the study, and he looked up, aware again of the world beyond his room. 

He closed the book and left it on the chair as he walked to his desk. He thrust his unfinished letter to Ms Puddyshank aside and pulled out a fresh piece of parchment. This time, the words flowed like water as something large -- too large for his body to contain -- erupted inside him and he needed to let it out.

>   
>  I wouldn’t blame you if you cursed the world,  
>  for what is worthy of you  
>  that has ever been?
> 
> Your reflection is nowhere  
>  but in the depths of my soul  
>  where I see you clearly as I see myself.  
> 


	2. II. The Meeting of Minds

The next morning found Albus right back at Bathilda Bagshot’s house having his morning tea with her and Gellert. Aberforth took over the mothering duties for Ariana of his own accord, which Albus was more than happy to let him do. He wasn’t going to complain if Aberforth wanted to take care of her; it didn’t mean Albus _didn’t_ want to. He was happy to do it if he had to. Hadn’t it been his idea in the first place that he come back home and stay with his little sister? Not that he had much of a choice; anyone would have done the same. But since Aberforth was here for the summer and seemed to find joy in doting on her, Albus was glad that his duties would be delayed a few more months and wouldn’t truly begin until Aberforth went back to Hogwarts. And September was not so far away. He’d have his last bit of fun while he still could.

“Have you seen much of the town yet?” Albus asked Gellert that morning. “I’ve been known to be a very good guide.”

“What a wonderful idea, Albus,” Bathilda chirped. “You can show him around Godric’s Hollow. He hasn’t seen anything but his room and this kitchen yet.” She turned to Gellert and added, “You will like Albus’s company, I daresay. He is quite the literary mind.” And she winked. 

It was the first time Albus had seen Gellert’s lips take any form other than a frown. Even his eyes lit up as he asked, “Are you well read?” 

“Well, not as well read I’d like to be,” Albus said, feeling shy all the sudden. He hoped he wasn’t smiling too much. “There are still books in the world I haven’t laid eyes on, I imagine.”

Gellert chuckled, and Albus found he had to take a sip of his tea right at that moment. 

Bathilda decided that was the perfect time to regale her nephew with all of Albus’s intellectual strengths. Usually Albus didn’t mind hearing his own accolades, as he worked hard for his accomplishments and he was proud of them, but this was the first time he wished he could hide and come back when it was over. His cheeks burned more and more with every award she named, one after the the other, like he was some freakish know-it-all teenage prodigy. It didn’t help that the whole time she was speaking, Gellert stared at him so intently, Albus felt the force of his curiosity clawing at him like a hungry thing. 

“You are too kind, Ms Bagshot,” Albus said eventually, cutting her off when she began to list all the new potions he’d invented in his sixth year. 

“I’m only telling the truth,” she insisted to Gellert, who tore his eyes off Albus so he could nod politely at her. “I haven’t exaggerated a single thing. This boy,” she wagged a finger in Albus’s direction, “is a genius.”

“It sounds like it,” Gellert admitted. 

He could not bite back his grin. “Well then you’re easy to fool,” Albus said, feeling a sense of modesty that didn’t often accost him. 

On their way up to town, walking side by side on the narrow cobbled road, they quizzed each other’s knowledge of charms as if they were getting ready for a surprise exam. And it was the most fun Albus had so far that summer. 

Gellert wore a sleek blazer and had wrapped an airy scarf around his throat. The summer heat had not yet broken, so it was still pleasantly cool and wet, though sunny. Always sunny. Gellert’s loafers were getting caked with mud. He fit in with the Muggles so well, Albus wondered whether he was a Half-blood. Perhaps a Muggleborn. For some reason, he felt it would be tactless to ask. All he could do was drink in Gellert’s sleek frame when he didn’t think Gellert noticed him looking, his body taking notice in ways that made Albus hot around the collar. 

“The counter charm to Accio,” Gellert demanded.

Albus scoffed and rolled his eyes. “That’s hardly a stumper. It’s Depulso, of course.” He glanced sideways at Gelert to assess his tolerance for cheekiness and was pleasantly surprised to see he was grinning broadly. “Tell me the jinx that makes people’s legs start dancing.” This was an obscure one.

“Tarantallegra,” Gellert answered easily. His eyes twinkled as he added, “Dark spells are something of a specialty of mine.”

“Dancing legs are hardly the stuff of Darkness. I’d happily cast it on myself at the next Yule Ball, as it would be an marked improvement on my own dancing skills.”

Gellert laughed loudly. “Even so… That was also an easy one.”

“Well aren’t you clever,” Albus teased. 

They reached the main road, with its quaint shops and pubs, the Muggle interspersed with the magically-concealed. Down they walked, chatting like old friends, to the little square in the center of town. Albus took him around the Muggle statue, explaining the Disillusionment Charm that made it turn into a marble warlock to wizarding eyes. Gellert circled it three times just to watch it change, as though he had never before seen magic at work, and Albus was pleased he could show him something he enjoyed so much. He learned much about his new companion that morning.

Gellert had a boundless thirst for knowledge, and he delighted in figuring out how spells worked. He was not content to watch the statue change but he must learn how it did so. It was exhilarating to be able to discuss such things, his theories and deductions about the mechanism of the spell, with someone as inquisitive as he was. By that afternoon, Albus felt like he had known Gellert his whole life. It was like a piece of himself had returned, fit into some deep, empty place that Albus never knew had needed filling. 

They reached the church, although Albus hadn’t been aware he was leading them there. His leading Gellert anywhere was a laughable concept now he thought of it, for Gellert gave the impression that he knew exactly where he was going all the time, as though no place in the world were foreign to him. He did not follow the path; the path went where he wanted to go.

“The ancient cemetery,” Gellert said under his breath, and Albus realised that they had, in fact, arrived there. 

“It is quite old, yes,” Albus agreed, casting a glance over it without seeing much. 

“Do you like cemeteries?” Gellert asked as though he was asking Albus if he liked treacle tart.

“You know, I have never thought about it,” Albus said, mimicking his casual tone. “I suppose there is something to say for the solitude one feels among the graves. Cemeteries are…” he thought, what was the word, “... quiet.”

“I don’t feel solitude at all,” Gellert said, frowning like he had when Albus had first met him. Albus wondered if he frowned when he was genuinely earnest about something, because to hear him speak, it was impossible to doubt him. “The dead are not still, Albus.”

“I quite like the idea of them being still.”

Gellert turned to look through the gate that led to the cemetery. “But they have so much to teach us.”

Albus raised his eyebrows. “You’ve never heard of the phrase, ‘silent as the grave’?”

“Only people keep secrets,” Gellert said. “Once they are dead, they have no reason to keep them anymore.”

“And how will they tell us their secrets?” Albus asked, deciding to play along. Besides, it was such thrilling nonsense he spoke. 

“Oh, they have ways. Come see!”

Albus followed Gellert down the small path meandering through the rows of gravestones. Some were tall, some were short, some stood straight and some were crumbling. Some were crosses, some where slabs, some were covered in etchings and some were smooth as granite. Albus didn’t realise Gellert was looking for a specific one until his frown deepened so much, it became a sneer. Albus hadn’t noticed because he hadn’t been paying attention to the gravestones at all, but taking the opportunity to study the long lines of Gellert’s body, the shape of his legs as he squatted down to read a particularly buffed out surname, the way his blond hair stopped at the nape of his neck. 

“What are you looking for?” Albus asked.

“They say this is where he’s buried.” Gellert got up from yet another spot that was clearly not the one he wanted, marching along the row mechanically. 

“Who?”

“Ignotus Peverell.”

“Is that your relative?”

Gellert turned to him and grinned like he’d told a joke. “If only he were, I would surely already have the cloak.”

“You’re going to have to tell me what you’re talking about at some point. I do enjoy a cryptic message at times -- quite good at riddles, actually -- but you’re not making much sense to me at all.”

“Have you really never heard of the Peverell brothers? And here I thought you were well read.”

“Ah, but I told you I wasn’t,” Albus joked. 

“Does this town have a decent library?”

“Unfortunately not… but there is a bookshop.”

“Actually... you said you had a younger sister?” 

Albus nodded. “Ariana, she is fourteen this year.”

“Right, well your mother must have read her bedtime stories when she was a child."

“She did.” Albus wondered if that would be his job from now on, reading to Ariana. It did not seem like such a bad job.

“Did she read her _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_?”

“Of course, we have all heard the stories. We have a copy at home.”

“Show it to me, and I’ll show you Ignotus Peverell.”

Albus hoped the old copy was in the study; it must be up there with the rest of the books. The thought of Gellert seeing the study, his eyes invading his secret place, made Albus giddy.

“I cannot help but feel,” Gellert said, stopping at the gate of the old church and looking at Albus piercingly, “as though I was meant to come here…” his old frown returned as he gathered his remaining words “... because you’re here.” 

Albus swallowed, reaching out to grab the wrought iron gate next to him because he felt he might sway. Gellert seemed to speak the words that rang shrilly through his own soul. 

“I feel,” Gellert continued, his voice tinged with awe, his cheeks pink like he’d been running, “as though we were meant to meet.” 

Albus could not have agreed more, but his voice was caught in his throat, which was ever tightening and depriving him of air. He must not let himself get carried away with this, he was such a foolish boy. Tearing his eyes away with something like physical pain, Albus turned toward home.

*

“You don’t have to stare like that,” Albus said when they were halfway up the stairs to the study. Aberforth stood at the top, glaring down at them. “This is Gellert,” Albus added, nodding behind him where Gellert was climbing up the steps behind him. 

Aberforth frowned and continued to stare suspiciously. 

With a sigh, Albus paused in his hike and turned to Gellert. “That’s my brother, don’t mind him. I would say he’s usually friendlier, but then I’d be lying.”

Gellert smirked and looked at Aberforth. He bypassed Albus on the stairs and stretched out his hand. “How do you do?”

Aberforth did not take it. “Where are you two going?” he asked, looking at Albus and ignoring Gellert completely. “It’s kind of late and I don’t think we should be having company.”

“It’s not even dark out!”

“Well it will be soon,” Aberforth pressed, looking at him purposefully. “You _know_ how she gets about company staying late.”

Albus wanted to roll his eyes, but he knew that would just antagonize Aberforth further. He looked at the door to Ariana’s room, which was shut. “Is she going to bed?”

“Yes, and you would know that she goes to bed around this time if you cared to check in on her at all.”

“Aberforth,” he said, lowering his voice, “this is hardly the time.” His cheeks heated as he wondered what Gellert must be making of their conversation; he didn’t want Gellert to know how lame his family life was. “We won’t be long.”

He lightly shoved him to the side and pushed into his mother’s study, Gellert’s footsteps right behind him. When Gellert had come through the door too, Albus pushed it shut with both hands and stood there, his heart beating. With a deep breath, he plastered a smile at his face and turned around. 

“Sorry about him.”

“Does he always play the father of the family?”

Albus wanted to smile at the joke, but it rankled, and he felt it come off bitterly. “You have no idea.” He swallowed. “But I suppose that will be my role soon.”

Gellert considered him seriously, his lips downturning in their usual manner. Albus felt a sweeping desire to step closer to him and steal a kiss from those lips. If only he were more bold. 

“Show me the book,” Gellert said. 

Albus was glad Gellert hadn’t pressed the subject of his family more, and felt another heady rush of affection for him. It was like Gellert understood him implicitly.

An idea took him, and he pulled his wand from the pocket of his jacket. He pointed it to the bookshelves. “Accio _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._ ” The old, thin book wriggled from between two fat volumes on magical theory, detached itself from the shelf, and soared into his outstretched hand.

Gellert grinned. “Show off.”

Albus wanted to bite back his own smile. And he did try. But impressing Gellert was sweet and satisfying. He opened the book to the first page. “Show me Ignotus Peverell,” he simply said.

It was an amazing story. By the time Gellert closed the book and had finished explaining the tale of the Hallows, Albus felt his head spinning in a million different directions. He had questions! Loads of them. So many that he feared if he opened his mouth they would all spill out at once in one big line of gibberish, and then Gellert would surely think he was loony. But maybe he was a bit loony. He certainly felt giddy with the idea of it. 

The power to outwit Death. 

“We have to find them,” Albus said. It was not a suggestion. Not a way to idle away the summer months because they were bored or had nothing else to do. No, it was a need. A fervent need that rivaled his need to touch Gellert, and somehow they intertwined into one, single need that he could no longer separate in his heart and mind. 

For the first time since he’s met him, Gellert’s eyes sparkled. There was something there that hadn’t been before, or perhaps Albus had just never noticed. It was something like madness. Perhaps Gellert was a little loony, too. 

“It’s why I’m here.” 

“In Godric’s Hollow?” Albus asked. “What could possibly be special about this place?” He had spent most of his summers here after they had moved and if he were honest, he wouldn’t have said there was anything particularly great about Godric’s-bloody-Hollow. The bane of his existence. If anything, since he was now resigned to spending the rest of his foreseeable future within the confines of this mundane little village, it seemed even duller than ever. 

“Ignotus Peverell lived here,” Gellert reminded him. “Or at least, this is where he’s buried.”

“And you were looking for his grave earlier.”

Gellert nodded, his smile infectious, his eyes bright. 

“Well then, we’ll have to go back, won’t we?”

“I’m thrilled you agree.” And he genuinely seemed it. Having Gellert look at him like that made something flutter in Albus’s chest.

When he figures it’s time for Gellert to leave so that Aberforth doesn’t have a stroke, it’s already hours passed nightfall. They couldn’t stop talking about the Hallows. Gellert promised to tell him more about what he’d discovered so far, and they could go looking for the grave again tomorrow. 

On his way to the door, Gellert glanced at the desk against the window that looked over onto Bathilda’s house. 

“What’s this?” he asked, fingering a piece of parchment.

Albus’s stomach dropped sickly and he ran to him. “That’s nothing!” He reached for the parchment but Gellert laughed and held it out of the way. 

“Did you write this?” Gellert asked. “You write poetry?”

Albus wanted to die. “Give it here,” he demanded, holding out his hand. 

“No, hold on, this is nice.” Gellert’s eyes scanned it rapidly. His smile faltered. 

He hated it, that much was obvious. He thought Albus was a poncey git who wrote poncey poetry. 

Gellert licked his lips and looked up at him, but there was nothing like mockery in his stare. “This is beautiful,” he breathed. 

Albus’s heart hammered in his throat. 

The moonlight came through the window and streaked Gellert’s face with waxy light, but Albus could still see the way his cheeks turned blushy pink. 

“It’s nothing,” Albus murmured, but Gellert was looking at him so intensely, he quickly became silent. 

He watched from the window as Gellert walked the path back to Bathilda’s house, hiding behind the curtain. For a moment, he thought he saw Gellert turn his head and look up, but it was so fleeting it might have been a trick of the light through the lace. 

He liked the poem.

What would he think if he knew it was about him?


	3. III. It is Fate, They Think

The letters that passed between them then were many and long. Their bedroom windows were so close, Albus didn’t even use his owl -- after Aberforth had complained that he was tiring her out -- but magically floated the folded notes across the lawn. Gellert left his window a crack open so that Albus’s letters might fly through, and Albus fell asleep in the study many nights for that very reason; he dozed off in the old armchair that smelled like lilacs and honey, his mother’s familiar scent, waiting for Gellert’s reply to come through.

They talked about everything. Albus shared with him the latest correspondence he was maintaining with whatever world-renowned witch or wizard was seeking him out that day. Obviously Gellert was madly impressed, and obviously Albus was pleased.

 

> _  
> I have never met anyone like you, Albus. You are truly brilliant -- magnificent -- an inspired mind!_
> 
> _Your latest essay is remarkable, thank you for sharing it with me. Reading your work is my favorite thing to do before bed, and I fall asleep with the your words still echoing in my head. I swear can hear your voice coming through the page._
> 
> _I only wish it were not confined to my imagination.  
>  G  
>  _

 

And though his heart beat madly, Albus did not dare to hope. He knew he must remain longing in silence, only imagining, with a painful stab in his chest, that Gellert meant what Albus actually wanted him to mean. And though he saw Gellert every day, he did not know which was worse; being near him but unable to speak, or being parted from him at night and unable to look at him. Both were a distinct sort of torture.

 

> _  
> I would think you were sick of my voice after hearing it all day. Although that does not make much sense at all, for I know that I am not sick of yours._
> 
> _Albus  
>  _

 

Eventually, Albus told him about the Muggles. He told him about what happened to Ariana. How the boys assaulted her and she became insane. How his father tried to avenge his little girl and ended up in Azkaban. How his mother died at Ariana’s hands. How Albus had to give up his future to do his duty.

And Gellert frowned, his eyes blazing.

 

> _  
> My dearest Albus,_
> 
> _This is why I press the issue so much -- I do not have to tell you that Muggles are dangerous to wizardkind. Letting them rule over our visibility has been our biggest mistake. For how can the most power belong in the hands of the powerless? It doesn’t stand to reason, my friend. I know that you see this as clearly as I do._
> 
> _We must control the Muggles, whereas now they control us._
> 
> _Gellert  
>  _

 

 

 

Bathilda had stuck Gellert and his two trunks in the spare bedroom at the topmost floor of the rickety old house. She referred to it as “the guestroom,” but Albus had the strong suspicion she had actually referred to it as “the closet” up until the day before Gellert arrived. It fit a twin-sized bed, a small dresser, and his two trunks, and not much else.

“But this is quite cozy,” Albus said pleasantly, as though he had never seen a more fitting bedroom in his life. He sat on the edge of the bed, as there was nowhere else to sit, and smiled.

Gellert’s grin lit up the spartan place. “At least I won’t be here long.”

“Oh?” Albus found the words unappealing for many reasons. “And why is that, when you have only just arrived?”

Rolling his eyes, Gellert said, good naturedly, “I’m on a quest to find the Hallows, of course.”

“Ah... of course.”

“And you will come with me.”

Something in his stomach dropped, and Albus found it hard to maintain his upbeat manner of only moments before. “If only I could,” he lamented, feeling genuine sorrow. The prospect of Gellert leaving him made his life the more bleak.

“But you must!” Gellert sat down next to him, bringing Albus’s pulse up to racing speed. When he took Albus’s hand in his, intertwining their fingers, Albus’s heart rioted in his chest. “You must come with me, Albus. We will hunt them down together. They, more than anything, are the key to our success.”

Albus swallowed.

 

 

 

The summer had started off bright, but the clouds rolled thicker over the little town every day. It seemed the longer Gellert stayed, the more fraught the weather became. The sun that had blinded Albus before was now a weak shred of light through white skies.

They walked past the graveyard again, their favorite haunt. Once they had found Ignotus Peverell’s grave with the Hallows symbol etched right in, there was no turning back for Gellert.

“I told you the dead spoke,” Gellert said. “He is telling us we are on the right path.” He traced the symbol with his index finger, staring in fascination and a smile playing on his lips.

He was convinced it was his life’s work, what they were doing, and Albus found himself quite convinced as well; Gellert’s passion was infectious. They would find the Hallows, restore wizards to their rightful place in leadership, and bring justice to the world.

And more than anything, they were the ones who had to do it.

It was their destiny.

Albus leaned against the fence at the far end of the graveyard, hidden from the world. It was their own private place among the trees and the fending off Gellert’s continued attempts.

“But you have to come,” he begged. “If you don’t I will never speak to you again.”

Albus grinned. “And I will die of heartbreak, and then you will be sorry.” He meant to tease, but something dark crossed over Gellert’s eyes. It made Albus feel, like Gellert usually made did, both scared and excited.

Gellert stepped close to him, pinning him against the fence, and in that moment the wind howled as if in foreboding. Albus shivered, but he didn’t know if it was from the suddenly cool wind battering his face or from Gellert’s excruciating proximity.

“We are brothers now,” Gellert said, leaning just a fraction closer. He placed his hands on either side of Albus’s body, clutching at the fence posts, imprisoning him. “To separate two brothers would be the cruelest thing in the world.”

“You’re the one separating us,” Albus said, and it came out strangled. His throat felt very dry.

Gellert shook his head, and the wind blew his hair fall magnificently around his face. “I do not think we could ever be parted, Albus, do you know why?”

Albus didn’t answer him, for he could hardly breathe.

“We are one, you and I,” Gellert said. “I can feel it. It’s what brought me here. It’s why I was meant to come here. To find the Hallows… and you.”

It had started to drizzle little pinpricks of rain. They stabbed at Albus’s cheeks.

“Gellert…”

Before he knew it, he had leaned the rest of the way in -- no, he had fallen! There was no other way to explain the way his body sought out Gellert’s like it was drawn by a magnetic pull, until he fell against him. Their lips met inevitably, pressed together. The clouds above finally erupted with a clang of thunder and drenched the world in rain.

Albus grabbed Gellert’s face in both hands and kissed him desperately. There was nothing, not monstrous thunder nor whistling wind, _nothing_ but Gellert’s lips sliding against his. For what else mattered in the world but this?

Gellert tore at the buttons of Albus’s trousers and got them unfastened, before ripping them down his thighs, and Albus gasped when the cold wood post of the fence stung the bare skin of his legs.

 _“Yes,”_ Albus breathed, urging Gellert on. He had never felt more naked or more bare than right then, among the trees, with Gellert thrusting into him. They were drenched, hair sopping wet, skin sliding against skin. He was being bathed by the rain, and when he emerged, he would not be the same.


End file.
